


Love You When I’m Drunk (Or: A Chronicle of Edward Nygma’s Attempts to Get Over One Oswald Cobblepot)

by kaijuvenom after dark (kaijuvenom)



Category: DCU (Comics), Gotham (TV)
Genre: "Yes hes got a dick in his mouth but it's about the emotional journey", (It's Oswald And We All Know He Comes Back), BDSM, Character Death, Drinking, Ed Stop It, F/F, Feathers & Featherplay, Implied/Referenced Sex, It's Heavily Implicated And Vaguely Talked About But Not Graphic At All, Like, M/M, Mentions of/Implied Knifeplay, Non-Graphic Sex, Restraints, Safeword Use, Sex Club, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, if I missed anything important I should've tagged, pls lmk, ya feel?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom%20after%20dark
Summary: Is there a line between pleasure and pain? Is there a line between being a little bit of a masochist and punishing yourself for something you can never let go of? How blurry can the lines get before they disappear completely? Because Edward Nygma would really like to know.
Relationships: Lucius Fox/Edward Nygma, Nina Damfino/Diedre Vance
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25
Collections: Ed/Lucius Fics





	Love You When I’m Drunk (Or: A Chronicle of Edward Nygma’s Attempts to Get Over One Oswald Cobblepot)

**Author's Note:**

> _He was a bullet I didn’t want to dodge, but to split straight through me so I could stare through the bloody wound in my body and say that you were here. And it’s not what I wanted, but you’re no longer mine. I should’ve moved on by now, should’ve left you behind. I don’t want to love you but I can’t cut the cord. I don’t want to love you anymore._

Ed knew exactly when he’d realized it. It wasn’t a question of _now,_ but a question of _why now? Why not any time before right now? Why not when Oswald had passed his test? Why not before he’d met Isabella?_

He didn’t want to love Oswald. It would have been so much easier if he’d hated him, watched his body sink into the pier and walk away without regret. Instead, he was standing at the docks, holding his gun with shaking hands, trying to think a way out of this. A reason not to kill Oswald, _anything._ There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Ed, you-”

Ed pushed the barrel of the gun into Oswald’s chest, shaking his head. “Shut _up,” I’m thinking, shut up, shut up shut up._ He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t _not_ do it. He was too much of a coward not to. Too competitive, too spiteful. He didn’t give a fuck about Isabella, this wasn’t about her anymore. Maybe it never really was, maybe she was the thing that made him realize Ed wasn’t immune to the selfishness Oswald was capable of. It was about Ed’s pride, about his feelings being disregarded the way they had. He reached forward with his other hand, pulling Oswald closer by his shirt. Were those raindrops or tears on his cheeks? It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. This was the end of the road for them both. 

He leaned forward, closing his eyes, and kissed Oswald.

“I love you,” he whispered, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as tight as he could, moving his hand to grip Oswald’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Gunshots don’t echo, but this one seemed to bounce off every surface and reverberate into Ed’s ears. The splash of water as Oswald fell backwards, arms outstretched and face pleading, didn’t even register as Ed fell to his knees, dropping the gun and heaving out choking breaths of air. 

He’d killed his best friend. He’d killed the love of his life. All because he couldn’t admit to himself that maybe, maybe, Oswald Cobblepot really did love him. And maybe that was okay. It shouldn’t have hurt as badly as it did, but Ed felt like a bullet had landed in his chest as well, settled between his ribs.

It hadn’t been a lethal shot, Ed had known that when he’d pulled the trigger. It could’ve gone in his head, his heart, neck, lungs. But he’d positioned it perfectly, without even making a conscious decision to do so. But even if it hadn’t been lethal, the water was. There was no way he could’ve survived that.

And yet... somehow. 

Oswald’s body never washed up on the shore. It nagged at him, pulling him back like a shirtsleeve caught on a door handle.

The nagging feeling echoed along with that gunshot, something he tried desperately to stamp out, so he did what he’d always done. Found something to distract himself with. And Lucius Fox was _right there_ , so comforting, so ready to believe that Ed wasn’t broken, that his mind hadn’t cracked beyond repair. 

That night he’d found Lucius in his car, he’d taken Ed to his boring beige apartment, offered him a place to stay without hesitation, given him pajamas to wear, and Ed, without thinking, while thinking _too much_ , had kissed him. Lucius had pulled away, arms aroundEd’s hips, stared at him for a second, and then pulled him back in, so gently, so slowly, kissing him in a way that made Ed forget, made his brain shut up. 

The kiss was like an electric shock, snapping Ed into an entirely different wavelength, like a switch had flipped in his mind and he could finally _think_ without that infuriating echo. They sunk backwards into the sofa, Ed falling on top of Lucius as his half-buttoned pajama top slid off his shoulders. 

Ed didn’t bother analyzing whatever could have been going through his head, he knew it would be a knotted mess of feelings and Oswald and gunshots and Oswald saying his name, pleading with him, and betrayal and Oswald’s lips on his and that gunshot and Oswald’s body falling down, _down, down_ , and—Ed hadn’t realized it, but Oswald’s name had come out of his mouth like it was some sort of unavoidable reflex. 

Lucius had certainly noticed though, and he moved one hand to the center of Ed’s chest, pushing him back. Not as a rejection, not in offense, but to look at him with those eyes that knew how to read everything he was thinking. His other hand was in Ed’s hair, petting it softly, methodically, like Ed was some sort of scientific anomaly that needed to be dissected and experimented on in order to understand him fully.

“It’s normal to feel regret, Ed. To want to have what you used to have, to imagine having it,” Lucius said finally, his voice still and even. He cleared his throat and continued. “But you have to keep your conscious mind out of the past, no matter how much your unconscious wants to tell you to focus on it.” His hand removed itself from Ed’s hair, resting on the back of his neck. “Your name is Edward Nygma, it is three fifteen in the morning on a Saturday in June, and you are lying on my couch, kissing me, Lucius Fox, in my apartment.”

Ed was silent, staring at him, eyes searching for something, for answers to questions he couldn’t ask, before he closed them again, taking a deep breath.

“Repeat that for me, Ed.”

“My name is Edward Nygma. It’s... three fifteen in the morning. On a Saturday in June. I’m in Lucius Fox’s apartment, lying on his couch.” Ed paused, breathing in again. “And kissing him,” he finished, before closing the distance between them again. It seemed stupid, saying those words out loud which seemed so clearly obvious, but it _grounded_ him for a minute, keeping him in the present time. 

The kiss continued longer than Ed could count for, Lucius was pushing Ed’s pajama shirt the rest of the way off his arms, moving his hands down his chest, stopping at every scar and mark down to his stomach. 

“Tell me where you got this one,” he whispered, fingers brushing against the scar on Ed’s hip, the one that dipped under the pajama pants and trailed down his thigh. 

Ed closed his eyes, licking his lips as he thought. He shivered as Lucius’ fingers trailed under the fabric and then back up. “Um. Angry- um. Angry- cellmate. Arkham. Tried to. um.” He gestured vaguely as an explanation, assuming Lucius would get the picture.

“I’m assuming you took care of them?”

Ed grinned, a hint of his old mania in his eyes. “Of course. No one touched me after that.”

Lucius smiled softly, moving his hand up, to one on Ed’s stomach. “This one?” 

“Coworker. Police,” Ed breathed, leaning back down and moving his lips to Lucius’ collarbone. “Stabbed me with a pen.” 

Lucius raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. “And… this?” His hand moved to one of the most noticeable scars, probably recent, a mark across Ed’s neck that was more of a skin discoloration, faded red like a bruise that have yet to completely heal. 

Ed visibly flinched. He swallowed, pressing fevered kisses to Lucius’ collarbone, down his chest, unbuttoning his pajama shirt as he went. “Girlfriend,” he finally managed quietly. “The. The woman I. I told you I loved.” 

Lucius blinked, hands curling into Ed’s hair. “The one Penguin-”

“Yes.” 

“Did he kno-”

“No.” 

“So he did it because-”

“Jealousy,” Ed muttered, now frantically pulling at Lucius’ pajama pants, managing to successfully remove them as he pulled them both up, Lucius getting the silent message of _bedroom, now_. He lead them successfully down the hall, managing to throw the door open as they stumbled in.

“Was he in love with-”

“Yes,” Ed whispered, refusing to let his lips leave Lucius’ skin for more than a second at a time. 

“And were you in love with hi-”

“ _Yes_. _I’m in love with you, Oswald.”_ Whether he noticed what he’d said or not, Ed didn’t bother apologizing to Lucius or correcting himself. 

Lucius didn’t mention it, instead he continued combing his hands through Ed’s hair, letting him do whatever he felt like doing. Most of what he seemed to feel like doing was trailing feather-light kisses down Lucius’ neck that turned into hard bites when he least expected it.

Nothing else was said for a long while, it was simply two people, one broken and the other trying desperately to repair him, one imagining someone else who was long gone and the other offering what little comfort he could.

They’d long since moved onto Lucius’ bed, blankets tangled around them along with hastily torn off items of clothing. They stared at each other, in absolute silence in the darkness, each waiting for the other to say something and neither knowing what to say, before Ed rolled over onto his side, his back to Lucius. 

“Edward?” Lucius asked quietly, breaking the tense silence. “We should talk about this.”

“No.”

“Ed, you need to talk about this.”

“No,” Ed repeated with less conviction.

“I wasn’t asking.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. “What is there to talk about?”

Despite not being able to see him, Ed was fairly certain he could hear Lucius roll his eyes. “Out of curiosity, are you aware of how many times you called me ‘Oswald’?”

He was not, in fact. “How many?” He finally asked, mumbling the question into the pillow he was burying his face into.

“Seven.” 

Ah. Shit. “… I’ll try for five or less next time.” 

Evidently, that wasn’t the answer Lucius had been hoping for, as he sighed loudly, rolling over so he was no longer facing Ed. “Goodnight, Ed. Sleep well.” 

Well, now it was Ed’s turn to sigh dramatically and roll back over, which he did, poking Lucius on the shoulder until he finally faced Ed again. “I do _know_ your name,” he began, which, as he quickly realized, was not a very strong beginning. “I mean—consciously.” Again, not a great start. 

Lucius raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. 

He took a deep breath, drawing patterns in the wrinkles of the sheets with his fingers. “I can’t _let him go,_ ” he finally breathed out, feeling like he’d unlocked a haunted manor of unresolved emotional trauma. 

“No one’s asking you to let him go, Ed. I’m not asking you to forget about someone you loved… still love.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I’m asking you to keep yourself in the present moment. I’m asking you to remember who you are, and where you are, and keep that thought in your mind. Instead of slipping into the past so you can live out a fantasy we both know is impossible now. No use dwelling on the impossible.”

Ed was about to contest that point by saying that Alice (of Wonderland) sometimes believed six impossible things before breakfast. Although the man who’d written Alice in Wonderland had been on a copious amount of drugs, so he chose not to use that as an example. “No use,” Ed echoed, a smile forming on his face that wasn’t entirely genuine. “Funny isn’t it, Foxy? I spent years repressing how I felt and now that I’ve finally stopped, there’s _no use_ for the feelings I worked so hard to keep down anymore. What a waste of repression. I could’ve used that energy to repress something that actually has a use.”

Whether Lucius was thinking it or not, he didn’t respond by telling Ed that it was really his fault there was no use for his feelings about Oswald anymore. He remained quiet, letting Ed sort out his thoughts and feelings before drifting off to sleep.

********

The knowledge that Oswald was still alive reached Edward at the same time the knowledge that Oswald was hellbent on achieving revenge for his attempted murder did. Those facts coupled with each other left a bitter taste in Ed’s mouth and it put an abrupt stop to any and all communication with Lucius. 

That echoing gunshot—it stayed with him, haunting him, _killing_ him, it was tearing him up inside and he couldn’t _live with the guilt._ So he found a different way to deal with it. Lucius was too kind to ever hurt Edward, even if he asked for it, the most he’d ever get from Foxy was light hair pulling, and that was _not_ doing it for Ed. He wanted to be hurt, wanted to be punished, as if that would assuage his guilt. 

Pandora’s Box was one of Gotham’s more… sophisticated pleasure clubs. It required a background check, a reservation made months in advance, contracts to sign, and multiple forms of identification. Edward Nygma didn’t give his real name to many people (anyone), but he was willing to waive that policy for the… well, in order to get a standing weekly reservation at Pandora’s Box. It was an exclusive, anonymous environment, names were hidden except to select staff members in favor of aliases or signature outfits, you could pretend you were comfortable and blend in without any problems. That was exactly what Ed did; he wore an eye mask, styled his hair a little differently, and tried to tone down the question mark insignias, and there—he was a whole new person. Or rather, not a person. He didn’t have a name, didn’t really have a distinguishable feature anywhere on him, if he were wearing a sign on his back, it would simply say, _hurt me_. 

Objects were treated with more compassion than the treatment Ed was asking for. Safewords were required at the club, but he’d never used them. He was most acquainted with the rooms at the end of the hallways that had warnings on the door, the ones with the showers in them that weren’t for cleaning yourself, but for when you needed something with a sharper edge. Something to really pierce your skin and slide across it with no regard for the blood that would bubble up. 

The large, open room in the back with the cages that were very convincing at actually making one feel locked up and alone, even with security right behind a curtain, the elaborate rope tying expertise demonstrated by many of said security members, the honestly admirably complex ways that were thought of to keep someone still, quiet, exposed, whatever it was they wanted… Ed was familiar with all of it. 

The face of whoever it was that was above him was obscured by the mask he was wearing, the way Ed always requested. He didn’t have a preference, nothing of the sort, just a request that whoever it was, whatever gender, however many, wear a mask and a pair of gloves.

He was presently on his knees, legs cuffed together and arms splayed out like he was being crucified, held in place by ropes that he assumed were tied to the hooks in the ceiling. His arms were getting rather tired. When he flexed his fingers, it sent tingles down his arms. The rope was digging into his skin in a way he was painfully used to. Was there a line between pleasure and pain? Was there a line between being a little bit of a masochist and punishing yourself for something you could never let go of? 

Because, as Edward ran his tongue across the cool metal of the spider gag, he was beginning to wonder how blurry the lines could get before they disappeared completely. 

How many sleepless nights could he spend on the floor of this club, begging to be used without taking a half second to think about being ashamed of it—and how many days could he spend pretending everything was _fine_ and he was _fine_ and people should be _afraid_ of him because he was—because he was—

He was _no one_. And here he didn’t have to bother pretending anything otherwise. And Lucius Fox had thought he could help Edward? There wasn’t any helping this, only temporary relief and sometimes not even that. Something about that fact satisfied him endlessly. He twisted his hand and the burn from the rope intensified. He did it again, wondering, _how far can I go before it finally breaks me?_ Would breaking be the only thing that would end this? Or was he already broken? Was there a way to tell? 

These questions were getting all muddled in his brain, the bass from the music in the main room of the club vibrating in his eardrums. It all really went back to the same question—was this pleasure or pain?

The problem with that question was that even Aristotle wasn’t able to figure out the answer to that. Of course, Aristotle also thought that only white women could have orgasms, so perhaps that was an unhelpful statement. Pleasure, in Edward’s (non-philosopher) professional opinion, was a feeling of relief upon the absence of pain. And because of that, it was also the _anticipation_ of future pain. You wouldn’t be trying to prolong about the appearance of pleasure without expecting it to go away again. But the very need to prolong that pleasure, that fear and anticipation of pain approaching again, was pain. So pain was pain, and pleasure was pain. 

The man above him finally moved, leather glove brushing through Edward’s hair like he was a pet, before moving down to his chin, pulling his face up. His thumb temporarily brushed across Ed’s bottom lip, barely poking inside his open mouth. Edward’s face felt wet, he’d apparently been crying again at some point, and of course, having his mouth open for this long probably wasn’t helping with the wetness of it all. 

Ed had many talents, one of them was not, unfortunately, the lack of a gag reflex and/or a throat of steel. Caused lots of problems with losing his voice the day after. He always promised himself he’d make a note in his paperwork he didn’t want to deepthroat anyone, but when the next night came around, he still hadn’t done it and he still didn’t mind. Not in the moment, at least. 

And that was back to the crux of the issue; the pain of experiencing pleasure was worse than the pain of pain. To not have something wasn’t so bad, but having something and losing it, that was worse. So it made sense that he actively sought out methods of pain. It wouldn’t hurt as much as letting himself experience pleasure of happiness would. 

One of his many talents was knowing how to use his tongue. He’d spent far too long in his teenage years learning how to knot cherry stems with his tongue and apparently his tongue-related skill set hadn’t stopped there. 

There were hands on the back of his head, holding him in place, pulling his hair, and there were words coming from the faceless person above him, words that weren’t quite reaching his ears as he focused on swirling his tongue in just the right way. The gag was taken off and the presence of the person above him drew back. It was then he realized exactly how sore his jaw was. He closed his mouth, swallowing and feeling his throat tighten. 

Then the person above him was close again, holding something Ed couldn’t quite see, and then something happened. That hadn’t happened before, that Edward wasn’t prepared for and couldn’t be prepared for.

He didn’t know why it was _feathers_ that got to him. 

It was idiotic. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t what he’d started coming here for. It wasn’t what he wanted. 

It was the first time he’d used a safeword. 

He usually cried, and warned anyone who happened to be tying him down that there was a high probability he’d cry and it wasn’t anything to be concerned about, but—he’d never had a panic attack there before. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had once with Lucius, but that was only due to the fact that he kept being to goddamn _sweet,_ and Edward, even looking back on it, had no idea if Lucius had treated him like that because he’d genuinely cared or because he thought it would help Ed’s mental state. Either way, his incessant kindness during sex had ended up getting to him, the gentle touches and soft smiles, it had all been too much, too painful, that only person who’d ever treated him with that amount of kindness was Oswald, and he _couldn’t_ think about him. 

But that night at Pandora’s Box, it hadn’t been gentleness that made his heart rate speed up and his breath come out in heaving gasps, his head spin and vision cloud up. It was all because of a feather. 

All over a goddamn white, fluffy feather, gently brushing up his arm, and that was all it took. He’d been shaking, sobbing, hyperventilating, and _why_? What made it so difficult to _let fucking go_? 

It was fairly late in the night—or early in the morning—that same day (or the next day, depending on one’s perception of time) that he was sitting at the bar, staring down at his mint julep like it held the answers of the universe in its ice cubes, that he was approached for the second time that night. The first time, it had been someone he usually entered those back rooms with, and he’d agreed without a second thought.

He took a long drink of his mint julep and slammed it back on the bar counter, trying to clear his head to no avail. Fucking Oswald. Fucking clubs. Fucking rope burns. Fucking emotions. Fucking memories. 

_Fucking_ feathers. 

Penguin feathers didn’t even _look_ like that. 

They weren’t that big, that shape, that color even. But that didn’t change the fact that his brain was telling him it was _Oswald,_ and he was _here_. He was _seeing this,_ he _knew,_ and most importantly, he knew _why Ed was doing this to himself_. He could practically hear his words, the mockery, the resigned judgement, the reminders, over and over again, that he had been _right_ and Ed had been _wrong_ and that he _deserved this_ —

“You’re the Riddler, aren’t you?” The voice behind him was peppy and clearly unconcerned that they had violated about five different rules of the club. And clearly, they didn’t care about insulting the Riddler or otherwise giving him a reason to kill them.

“I could get you kicked out right now for saying that,” Ed muttered in response, turning to look at the woman. She was wearing a dark eye mask, fishnets, and a purple leotard, she had short black hair and looked relatively tame for a place like this, but he wasn’t one to judge based on appearances. “I’ve seen you before,” he blinked slowly, the bourbon from the several mint juleps he’d already had making it very hard to have normal brain function. 

“Well, I’d hope so. I do work here, anyway.” She leaned in a little, cupping her hand over her mouth like she was about to whisper conspiratorially. “But I work the girls-only rooms.” 

Ed blinked a few more times, brow furrowing. “Fascinating.” It wasn’t. 

“Name’s Echo. My girlfriend knows you. She’s spent some time with you here before, you might remember. Long blonde hair, real tall? Really likes whips? Such a babe.” 

It took Ed several long seconds to realize that she’d stopped talking. “I wouldn’t remember.” It was true, he typically got so drunk afterwards that the memories of the night would be fuzzy recollections at the very best. 

“She goes by Query.” 

“You’re still talking?” Ed had to admire her persistence. He wasn’t sure what she wanted, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. 

“I was asked to check up on you. You’re one of our best clients. Always tips well. It’d suck if we lost ya.” 

He sighed, signaling the bartender for a refill. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If it’s a problem with the guy you were with, we can always fire him, we’re here for—”

“No. It wasn’t his fault. It was a mistake. I didn’t know my limits and I got overwhelmed.” 

“You wanna update your information? I can do it now for you.” 

Ed sighed again, wondering maybe if she would stop talking if he agreed. “Fine. No feathers. That’s it.” 

She pulled out a tablet from her bag that Ed hadn’t bothered to notice before, and began tapping away on it, opening up Ed’s filed typing something in before closing it again. “There ya go. No more feathers.” 

“Thanks,” he muttered halfheartedly.

“So what’s someone like you doin’ here anyway? I mean, sure, we get lotsa shady folks in here, but the ones who come in won’t surprise you, ya know? It’s what you’d expect from the likes of them. Like Victor Zsasz.” Yet again, she was talking, and somehow she was managing to spill even more unnecessary details about things that were meant to be confidential. Clearly, she was doing it so Edward would feel obligated to trust her. She wanted something from him. He couldn’t figure out _what_. 

“But you don’t seem like the type. Granted, that happens sometimes. Can’t judge a book by its cover and all that, but…” she shrugged, “I dunno. You’re interesting. Query says you—”

“Not to be rude, Miss—” Edward paused, realizing he’d completely forgotten her name. He wasn’t sure if it was becausehe was drunk or because he hadn’t been listening. It was likely a combination of both. 

“Echo.”

“Right. That. But please stop talking. I don’t come here to get bombarded by people looking to blackmail me. So if you could tell me what you want and _shut up—_ ”

“I’m not trying to blackmail you.”

“Then what _are_ you trying to do?”

Echo ran a hand through her brown hair, fluffing it up. “I think you’re interesting, is all.” 

Despite his outward annoyance, Edward had to admire this woman’s moxie. He sighed in resignation and pulled the barstool next to him out, gesturing for her to sit down. “Good, then you can keep me company while I drink myself to death.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The thing about writing fanfiction is that nothing actually has to happen in it and no developments have to be made, and it can have a crappy cliffhanger ending that you’ll never circle back to and it doesn’t matter as long as it was fun to write and bY diGgiTy was this fun to write or what
> 
> (twitter: @kaijuvenom | 18+ twitter: @swamplesbian)


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